


a shot like a shroud

by DragonflyxParodies



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is a Saint, Alfred is a bamf, Gen, It's just another Alfred Handles Shit for his fam fic, Murder, Post Jason's death, Short, joker dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26398000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonflyxParodies/pseuds/DragonflyxParodies
Summary: "You killed my grandson."
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 20
Kudos: 254





	a shot like a shroud

It had taken three days to coax what had happened out from Bruce. Three days the man had sat, nearly catatonic and staring numbly with red, swollen eyes at the book Jason had left dog-eared and open on the Cave’s computer. Not eating, not sleeping, still ash-stained.

It had been a long, _long_ time since Alfred had last allowed himself to break down, but that third day, staring at the dark stains crusted onto his son’s gauntlets, he had _shattered_. Grieved until long past morning, held Bruce close as he, too, finally gave in. And after Bruce had finally, _finally_ fallen asleep, Alfred dragged every piece of himself he could find back together, and stood.

His footsteps echoed like gunshots in the hall, as he made his way to his room. The scrape of wood on wood as he pulled out his bedside drawer was even louder, grated against every nerve in his body. But the click of the false bottom was comforting, quiet even in the deathly stillness of the Manor.

Bruce knew about the gun laying beneath Alfred’s bed. He didn’t know about the others. Didn’t know about the extent of Alfred’s military career, either.

He took the same nondescript black car he always drove when running errands. Kept just under the speed limit. Amusement Mile rose up like the grasping legs of a spider in just under an hour, slashing at the pale of the sky. Even that was washed out, more grey than baby blue.

He parked outside the park’s entrance, and closed the door behind him with a satisfying _thump_. He was weary, exhausted, the kind of soul-deep ache he hadn’t felt in _years_.

Bruce had been a boy, then. _This_ hadn’t been an option. But by _God_ was Alfred sick of losing people, and Jason…

Jason was his fucking _grandson_. A _child_.

Alfred stepped forward, and entered a different kind of quiet – like the whole world was holding its breath. He might have been, too. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

He found his query laying eagle spread on the ground, in the mouth of a decrepit ride that had once been styled as a gaping maw of some great monster. A broken, rotting sign read _C V E F H O R R O_ off to the left.

“You would be the Joker, then?”

There was no real need to ask – Alfred knew what the creature looked like – but it brought him some amount of satisfaction, to see the creature jerk like a puppet on strings and lurch to its feet, startled.

“Mmm, and who’s asking about little old me?” It grinned, mouth twisting wide and long as ivory fingers steeple beneath its chin. The Joker was a carcass, dried sinew stretched tight over cracking, bleached bone. A purple suit hung baggy and heavy over its shoulders.

The first shot got it right in the stomach, sent it reeling backwards in a tumble of long limbs and fabric. Perhaps most surprising was the red splattering the concrete beneath them. It was only human, after all. Or, mortal, rather.

“You killed my grandson.” Alfred said.

The second shot took the top of its skull clean off.

He took the gun home with him. He cleaned it in his own bedroom, with the door firmly shut and locked, and laid it back to rest with the kind of gravity with which he always did these things. If there was a next time, his weapon would be ready. And if not, the only if he allowed himself to hope for, it could be forgotten.

“Alfred.” Bruce’s voice was a cracked, shattered thing. Alfred paused in the door of his son’s bedroom and glanced back at him, sitting so heavy and _lost_ in the grey light of the evening pouring in through his window.

He was clean. He’d eaten something, if only toast and a cup of tea. There was no healing from this, but Alfred was beginning to think his son might _survive_.

Bruce swallowed, and squeezed his hands together.

“There’s blood on your shirt.”

Alfred glanced down, at the dark stain splattered over his sleeve.

“So there is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay but  
> Alfred meeting Jason at a shooting range after Jason's resurrection to Hang Out and also because B won't let them practice at the manor and Alfred isn't gonna let his skillz go rusty no sir he's too On Top Of Shit for that and everybody there knows Alfred and Jason's just like ??? this is why you're my favorite???


End file.
